As the sun set, I watched, behind the razorwire, as the gentle waves crashed against the shore. I listened, peacefully, to my ipod--unaware of the trauma that was only minutes away. "So, Jeff, do you want to run with me around this area. It would be a great way to get to know your surroundings," interrupted Bob, the professor--who also lives in our compound. "Why, yes, Bob, I would love to run with you," I replied. STOP!!!! What was I thinking. Run? I don't run. I guess I could if I needed to get to the Embassy. Even then it is a coin toss on whether I would have the motivation to keep running after fifteen minutes or just stop and submit to a brutal demise committed by armed, drugged kids, in a rage.
Never-the-less, I walked off to my room (as you recall, Suite 4) and began looking for suitable running apparel. Now, this was problematic, as I hadn't been planning on running for exercise--running for my life, yes...exercise, no. So, I lifted the lid on my suitcase and peered inside. Hmmmm, jeans....no. Boxers, well...could work, put a maybe next to that. Shorts, probably not. Some sort of pajama pants...clearly no. Bathing suit...pause...ahhh...acceptable. So, I put on my Hawaiian themed bathing suite and an old Indiana Law shirt and walked out to meet "The Professor" (Giligan's Island music playing in the background).
As I stepped onto the veranda, I could hear laughter in the background. "Oh, they are going to love you," touted the Professor. "You look like a Miami tourist," he continued. "Ouch," I thought. My style (not that I was trying) was criticized by a man twice my age.
Shortly after, we started to run our route. Bob the Professor quickly set down an incredible pace--matched only by NASA's new shuttle design. "fffff, hhhhhh, how often to you run, Bob," I gasped. "Everyday, Jeff, this is my light run, its my rest day," replied Bob. "That's good to know, Bob," I said. I struggled from the start and Bob continued to open up a can of Liberian running whoopass. The fact that a man twice my age placed me into difficulty in the first 200 yards of a three mile run, can only be characterized as a self-confidence building experience.
Soon, we had covered prime running terrain--including what might be described as the town dump, malaria mile (a short stretch of road, in a pestilential swamp, and JFK hospital--a necessity after running through the dump and malaria mile.
After awhile, we stopped briefly to allow me to breath--a.k.a. continue living. As my vision blurred, I recognized Bob speaking to a local man regarding a vehicle that was completely demolished. "What happened here," Bob asked. "The crazy man came," replied the local. "He hit the car," continued Bob. "Yes, yes, he broke all the windows and screamed," replied the local. "Hmmmm, interesting," stated Bob, in a manner consistent with only true academics. "Which way did he go?" The local then pointed in our direction--the very same direction that stood between me and the compound.
I believe that it should be a comforting thought to know that a crazy man lives in our area. It keeps the locals on their toes and creates an awareness in the community on mental health issues. This man should be applauded as the first spokesman for mental health rights in Monrovia!
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